


Slow Dancing

by epistolic



Series: Monster [2]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epistolic/pseuds/epistolic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jiyong has a habit of collecting people. Youngbae should know: he was the first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of a series! It should make sense without reading [Crows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5050891), but I still recommend reading that first!

_What would you like? I'd like my money’s worth._  
_We pull our boots on with both hands_  
_but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do_  
_is stand on the curb and say Sorry_  
_about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine._

\--

Youngbae falls in love on a Friday.

It’s late. Jiyong pulls them up in the middle of the highway, just flat-out stops the car. Whistles as he gets out. Takes his time about it. The streetlamps ooze a smoky light and Jiyong’s shadow reels away across the asphalt, the road unfurling before them like a ribbon.

Youngbae sits frozen for a moment. At this point they’re young and probably crazy but this is a new type of crazy, Jiyong’s type of crazy. Youngbae still isn’t used to it.

“Quit it,” Jiyong calls. His voice floats back to the car, almost lazily.

“What?”

“The gawping. Quit it. ‘S nice out here.”

Youngbae swivels urgently in his seat, but there isn’t a car for miles. Yet. “Fuck. Jiyong. Get your ass back here.”

“Nah.”

“What the fuck you doing?”

“I told you,” Jiyong says, “’s nice out here.”

Jiyong lies down on the road. A little ahead, just outside the cone of a streetlamp’s glare; long limbs folding him down to the ground, flat on his back, ankles crossed. Still whistling, the fucker. 

Youngbae gets out of the car. He means to go and drag Jiyong back, throw him over one shoulder like a toddler if necessary, but when he gets there Jiyong just tips his head up and smiles. Jiyong has one eye squeezed shut against the light. He’s stretching out like a cat, getting nice and comfortable. 

“Jiyong,” Youngbae says.

“Come ‘ere,” Jiyong says, and pats the road beside him.

So Youngbae lies down; is doing it before he knows he’s doing it. The gravel bites into his skin. His boots scrape against the asphalt. His heart is in his mouth, ears strained for the sound of an oncoming car, for death and screaming metal. All the little things that Jiyong doesn’t pay attention to – has never had to because Youngbae has always been there.

Jiyong’s hand lands on his wrist. “Hey. ‘Bae.”

“Yeah?”

“Look.”

Jiyong jerks his chin. Up above them, an unexpected canopy of stars, spilling across the sky like glass.

Youngbae swallows. 

The night is very still. Suddenly Youngbae’s head is empty, breathless with the beauty of it. They are lying in the middle of a fucking highway but they’re still joined at the wrist and all of a sudden Youngbae is aware of Jiyong’s body, properly aware: angles and edges and the way he will become dangerous one day, the most dangerous thing that Youngbae knows.

“Happy birthday,” Jiyong whispers, voice shredding in the wind.

“Yeah,” Youngbae says. He’s staring now, can’t stop, knows he won’t be able to now he’s started. “Yeah.”

\--

But this is Jiyong – so there’s bloodshed, stitches, car chases in the suburbs, the two of them scraping through by the skin of their teeth on a weekly basis.

It’s a Wednesday. Youngbae has his arm around Jiyong’s waist. They’re moving, crablike, the last few metres from the car to the front door. 

“Jesus.” Jiyong is still upright, but barely. “Jesus fucking fuck.”

“Nearly there.”

“Don’t fucking baby me,” Jiyong snarls, and Youngbae smiles. Jiyong’s carrying about a third of his own weight but even then he’s shaky. “’m fine. You just – ” He shoves Youngbae away with his good arm and his knees buckle; Youngbae hoists him back up. “Ugh.”

“Stop being an idiot or I’ll drop you.”

“Then fucking drop me.”

Youngbae pulls him closer, fumbles the door open. “Shut it. Please.”

Jiyong is taller but he’s whippet-thin, looks like he’d blow away in the wind. Youngbae navigates them into the cramped shower, not even bothering to shed their boots, just turns the water on.

Jiyong tucks his face into Youngbae’s shoulder and hisses, once.

“You ‘kay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” Jiyong snaps at him. “Get the fuck on with it.”

Jiyong’s body is warm, warmer than it should be. The water runs a rusty red. There’s mud smeared in Jiyong’s hair, a long raw scrape down one cheek, their boots crunching in grit. 

Youngbae gets the jacket off. Jiyong’s shirt is soaked. Pink blotches come through from where he’s still bleeding. They’re hungry in these early days and Jiyong shows it, hipbones like knives, the knobs of his spine punching out angrily from under his skin. 

“You’re staring,” Jiyong mumbles. 

“Sorry.”

“I got some asshole’s blood all over my jacket.”

“You got two broken ribs and you’re hung up on your fucking jacket?”

“’s my best jacket.” Jiyong’s fading, voice slurring at the edges. “And m’ribs aren’t broken. Jus’ sprained.”

Jiyong falls asleep midway, body listing into Youngbae’s like a ship at sea. For the longest while Youngbae just lets him be. Doesn’t wake him. Stands with the water dripping into his eyes, holding him up.

It isn’t the same, but it’s close enough.

\--

Jiyong brings Seunghyun back first, like leading home a stray dog.

Seunghyun is a giant. He looks as if he hasn’t had a shower in days. He has a strange way of looking at people – like he’s been beaten around in the past, is only now considering beating back.

Youngbae stands in the doorway with his arms crossed. “What’s this?”

“Big guy, this here’s Youngbae.” Jiyong grins, whacks the giant on the back. “Hey, introduce yourself.”

Seunghyun just nods. Doesn’t speak.

This is ridiculous.

“Jiyong,” Youngbae says. “What you – ”

“Seunghyun was sayin’ about some boys out past the – where’d you say it was?” Then, when Seunghyun stays silent, a hulking presence in their tiny living room, head inches from the bare bulb swinging from the ceiling: “Tch, don’t matter. Seunghyun’s with us.”

Jiyong has a habit of collecting people. Youngbae should know: he was the first. None of the others have lasted, but Seunghyun is Jiyong’s type, a screw loose in there somewhere behind the dark eyes. 

“Fine,” Youngbae says. “Suit yourself.”

“We got another mattress somewhere in this dump?”

“Dunno. I’ll have a look.”

When he gets back, empty-handed, the two of them are curled together on the floor. 

Seunghyun is whispering. He looks animated, his grubby face lit up. Jiyong is half-sitting, half-lying next to him, propped up on his elbows on the mangy carpet, head bent to one side and listening. There’s a furtive little smile on Jiyong’s face. His eyes shine. When he tips his head back to laugh Youngbae can see the way Seunghyun’s eyes follow, transfixed.

“We got nothin’ out back,” Youngbae says, and Jiyong’s gaze snaps up.

“Ah, don’t matter. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Nah, I’ll do it.”

Jiyong watches him. “You sure?”

“’m sure,” Youngbae says. “I wouldn’t fit on a mattress with ‘im anyway. He’s big as a tank.”

Jiyong smiles. Out of the two of them Jiyong takes up the most space, sleeps like a tornado, limbs flung every which way over the sheets. Youngbae’s used to it; Seunghyun will be too, it seems. Eventually.

“Thanks,” Jiyong says.

Youngbae shrugs and turns away.

\--

Fighting with Seunghyun in the ranks is an experience.

“Hey!” Youngbae shouts. It doesn’t seem to achieve much. “Hey, you gotta stop. Hey! Fuck – ”

Jiyong materialises like a trick of the light. “Seunghyun.”

Seunghyun just keeps doing what he’s doing, which is beating some poor guy into a bloody pulp on the pavement. His massive hands flash white against his sleeves. His eyes are wild, his teeth bare with rage. The guy is long gone, out stone cold, but Seunghyun doesn’t even seem to notice.

Youngbae starts forward but Jiyong puts out a hand to stop him. “Don’t.”

“He’s gonna fucking kill him, Jiyong.”

“Don’t touch him. He don’t like to be touched.”

Youngbae reels away. He can’t even watch. He’s no shrinking violet, has seen his fair share of blood and broken limbs, but nothing like this. “Jesus _fuck_.”

“Seunghyun,” Jiyong says. “Seunghyun, listen t’me. Can you hear me? ‘m here. Seunghyun.”

“Jesus,” Youngbae says.

“Seunghyun, you big fucker. I know you can hear me. Look at me, dammit.”

It takes fifteen minutes to talk him down. The sun blisters off the concrete. For a long moment Seunghyun just sits back on his heels, knuckles raw, eyes closed and panting in the heat.

“You good?” Jiyong says, finally.

Seunghyun opens his eyes. Nods once. 

“Good. Then let’s go.”

Whatever they leave behind isn’t breathing any more. Blood weaves away down the cracks in the pavement; when it comes up on the news, Jiyong reaches over and changes the channel.

\--

It goes well for two months, Seunghyun stitched to Jiyong’s side wherever they go.

This is around about how long Jiyong’s fascination usually lasts. Jiyong is bad at paying attention. Youngbae has made it this far because Jiyong can’t stand being alone, and because if Jiyong tried to push him away Youngbae would push right back.

Jiyong knows, Youngbae thinks; surely Jiyong knows. Why else would Youngbae still be here?

So, two months. 

Then Seungri: bright little comet of a boy, laughs often, barely out of high school, the puppy fat still on his cheeks. Has a girl hanging off him, face tipped up and giggling at something he’s said. Has the bad luck to catch Jiyong’s eye just by walking down the street.

“No,” Youngbae says. 

Jiyong looks at him, sideways, as he drives. Youngbae’s never put his foot down before.

“’s just a kid,” Youngbae says. “Leave him alone.”

He doesn’t expect Jiyong to listen to him, but he does. Just this once. Just for now, anyway. Seungri gets away from them for another twelve months, slips out of Jiyong’s grasp like a wisp of smoke.

\--

It’s March and Seunghyun is bleeding out in the bathroom.

Youngbae is trying to hold him down for long enough to probe the wound. Somehow, this sort of thing always falls to Youngbae – Jiyong doesn’t have the patience.

Seunghyun is thrashing about in the bathtub, which is quite impressive given his dislocated shoulder.

“Stop,” Youngbae hisses at him. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Get _off_ – ”

Youngbae hits him. Violence is about the only thing that reaches Seunghyun nowadays, now that Jiyong’s drifted away. “You got glass in your head, idiot, I gotta get it out and then I gotta get your arm back into its socket or you won’t never use it again. Got it? Y’know what that means? Not using your arm?”

“Don’t care,” Seunghyun growls at him. “Fuck off.”

“You won’t be no use to Jiyong without an arm.”

That gets his attention. Seunghyun stills for a moment, watching him.

Youngbae takes the opportunity to get his head under the tap, peeling Seunghyun’s matted hair out of the way. There’s a nasty gash just above his ear but less glass than expected, which explains the lack of cooperation.

“He don’t smoke anymore,” Seunghyun says after a while. “He used to smoke.”

“What?”

“Jiyong,” Seunghyun says, like Youngbae’s an idiot. “He used to smoke. With me. Got me a lighter.”

“Didn’t know you could actually speak in full sentences,” Youngbae mutters. He’s distracted, trying to put stitches in through the welling blood. 

“He don’t like me anymore. I can tell.”

Youngbae pauses. Looks at Seunghyun, properly, for the first time. “Seunghyun.”

“That what happen to you too?”

“Maybe. Dunno. Jiyong’s just like that.”

“But I love ‘im.” 

Youngbae goes back to his stitching. Doesn’t answer. Nowadays Jiyong only wants something when it’s not his to have, or when it’s on the brink of being taken away from him. It’s not a thing Seunghyun would understand. Underneath his layers Seunghyun is still a child, the most innocent out of all of them despite the blood on his hands.

“’m gonna have to cut off your shirt,” Youngbae says. “That gonna be a problem?”

He expects Seunghyun to fight him, but Seunghyun doesn’t. Limp as a ragdoll, Seunghyun just sits there. Doesn’t even flinch when the shoulder goes back in: like the pain’s nothing at all, like he’s had much worse. Like he lives with it every day.

\--

There’s a light under the door when Youngbae gets up to piss.

On his way back he peeks inside. It’s Jiyong, shirt loose on his shoulders, padding barefoot back and forth over the carpet.

There are terrible, sleepless bruises under Jiyong’s eyes. He’s washed very pale in the light. His collarbones start out of his body like birds mid-flight. He has a pen in one hand, is clicking it on and off over and over, shoulders strung with tension.

“Jiyong?” Youngbae whispers.

“’Bae.” Jiyong’s eyes are narrow with focus, dark and almost metallic. “Go t’bed.”

“What you doing?”

“Thinkin’.”

Youngbae inches into the room. There’s paper all over the floor, sheets and sheets of it, arrows and Jiyong’s haywire scribbling everywhere.

“I almost got it,” Jiyong says. “Gotta do it bit by bit. Make it small ‘fore we make it big. This place, we got all these little gangs everywhere, makes it messy but nothin’ wrong with messy, just gotta – ”

“Jiyong, when’d you last sleep?”

Jiyong blinks at him, irritated. “What?”

“How long? Two days?”

Jiyong yanks a fist through his hair, turns away. Jiyong does this every now and then – pushes himself to the very limit, seems to like the way his body runs on all cylinders split seconds before it implodes. 

“Fucking hell, Youngbae,” Jiyong snaps.

“When you don’t sleep, Seunghyun don’t sleep.”

Jiyong pauses in his pacing, gawps at him. “What? Why the fuck he doing that? Where is he?”

“Out.” Youngbae shrugs, can feel an icy anger clawing up his spine at the fact Jiyong hasn’t even _noticed_ , he’s brought this crazy creature home, surely he should assume some fucking responsibility. “He won’t let me go with, and he won’t tell me where he goes. Haven’t seen ‘im since last night.”

“Why you just tellin’ me now? Jesus. Fuck.”

“Maybe ‘cause I couldn’t find you anywhere ‘til now,” Youngbae snaps. The words spit out of him like bullets. “Where the fuck you been? I’m close, Jiyong, I fuckin’ swear, one of these days – ”

He stops.

Jiyong is watching him. “What, Youngbae? _What?_ One of these days?”

“Fuck you.”

Jiyong stalks closer, gets right up into his face. Jiyong is incandescent, so furious that he burns with it. “You gonna fucking walk out on me? That what you were gonna say, ‘Bae? Fuck _you_. What you think I been tryin’ to do here? You think I’m doing this ‘cause it’s _fun_? I’m trying to build us something, I don’t have the time to hang around _babysitting_ – ” 

“You _fucker_ ,” Youngbae snarls, and punches him.

Jiyong rocks back, stunned. He blinks. His hand comes up to touch his bloodied lip, like he’s not sure what just happened. 

Then his eyes flare dark and he punches back.

\--

Seunghyun comes home, but he doesn’t come home alone.

There’s a boy on the doorstep. For a second Youngbae isn’t sure what he’s looking at: the boy’s hair is so long that his eyes are completely hidden under it. 

Seunghyun’s trying to crane a look inside. “Jiyong?”

“Not here,” Youngbae says shortly. He jerks a chin at the boy. “Who’s this?”

The boy smiles at him. He’s swamped in a parka several sizes too big. He’s obviously off the street, has that roughness to his edges, but Youngbae thinks that with a haircut and a week of good dinners he could pass for something completely different.

“I found him,” the boy says. “He was asleep behind some bins outside the supermarket.”

“Huh. You got a name?”

“Daesung.”

Youngbae looks him over a second time. “You speak pretty slick for someone ‘round these parts.”

Daesung just smiles again. Doesn’t explain himself.

Seunghyun bumps against him, not losing it, just impatient. “’Bae. C’mon.”

“You even know who this guy is?”

“No,” Seunghyun says. “Don’t care. Whatever.”

Youngbae sighs. To be honest Youngbae is tired. Jiyong’s left him with a patchwork of bruises and a black eye, but that’s not it. There’s an ache deep inside his bones, a cold weight dragging him down.

“Fine,” Youngbae says. He steps aside to let them through.

\--

It’s the fourth day and something’s wrong.

Seunghyun can sense it too, jittery in the house, fluttering in and out of the living room like a restless ghost. Can’t sit still. Won’t eat. Won’t talk about it either, although for Seunghyun that’s nothing new.

Youngbae does the usual things, since if he doesn’t then nobody will. He stocks the fridge. He fills the car up, something in him on edge, needing reassurance. He slips a knife into his boot, though it’s against the rules. He stalks around the perimeter of their cramped apartment building, daring trouble to find him. 

Jiyong’s never been gone this long before.

“’m going out,” he says finally. Palms the keys from the rickety foyer table. “Be right back.”

Seunghyun stands. “I’m comin’ with.”

“No. You stay here. Daesung, you keep an eye on ‘im.”

Daesung watches him cautiously, hair pulled up out of his face with a rubber band. “Okay.”

“Don’t let ‘im get out. Deck him one if y’need to.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s laughable. “Or just call me, I’ll come back and deck ‘im. You got my number.”

“Yeah. Sure, _hyung_.”

It’s a bright chill April evening, the engine first a splutter beneath him, then a roar. 

Youngbae drives to the very edge of his inner map, and then he drives a bit further. The streets and suburbs blur past. The windows wound down, the night flying in, indigo purples, a black so colourless it’s almost blue. In the middle of the highway he gets out: the yawn of the sky still so gorgeous, still so perfect and unquestionable, Jiyong’s gift to him all those years ago.

He lies down in the road, feet neatly together, arms spread.

 _I’m here_ , he thinks to no-one in particular. To the stars, maybe. _I’m here._

_Come get me._

\--

Two days later Jiyong comes tumbling into the house, laughing, a boy under his arm.

So it’s Seungri. So he never did get away, after all. 

Seunghyun rockets out of his room, stops the moment he sees it. Jiyong has his face pressed into the side of Seungri’s neck. Seungri’s precariously balanced, Jiyong dragging at him in an effort to tell him something, a lovely pleased flush in Seungri’s cheeks, a smile so broad and open that it hurts to watch.

“This is _maknae_ ,” Jiyong says. He’s still looking at Seungri, can’t seem to look away. “ _Maknae_ , say ’ello.”

Seungri smiles, embarrassed. “’ello.”

“You gotta say your name too.”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s Seungri. I’m Seungri.”

Youngbae gets it. He does. Seungri has this effect on people, a tidal pull, something subtle that hooks in under your skin from day one. Makes you want to love him without even knowing who he is.

He puts his hand out. “Youngbae.”

“I know.” Seungri looks at him, curious. Takes his hand. Seungri’s managed to lose the puppy fat but he still looks way too young to be doing this, his lashes as soft and fragile as a girl’s. “ _Hyung_ told me about you.”

“Did he.”

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything Jiyong says.”

Seungri blinks, like this hasn’t even occurred to him. “Oh. Okay.”

Jiyong is smitten, his grin giddy and lopsided. His entire body curled into Seungri’s side like he belongs there. No trace of that starved creature of a week ago, the one whose knuckles buried into Youngbae’s stomach over and over until it was too much, even for them; the one with blood in his teeth, grit in his hair, looking back at Youngbae from along a deserted highway. The one that wanted Youngbae to stay, didn’t know how else to ask for it but with fists. The one Youngbae fell for.

“Seunghyun,” Youngbae says. Seunghyun is looking at Jiyong as if he’s been shot, all the colour gone from his face. “Hey, big guy. Hey. C’mon.”

“’Bae,” Seunghyun says. “I’m – ”

“C’mon.”

Seungri’s voice rings behind them as Youngbae steers Seunghyun from the room. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong? Where’re they going?”

“’s fine,” Youngbae hears Jiyong say. “You’re fine, don’t worry. You’re perfect.”

\--

“Happy birthday,” Jiyong says.

Jiyong’s sitting on his mattress. Youngbae is the only one with his own; all the others have paired off. 

Jiyong is wearing a new shirt, scuffed jeans, a silver fang gleaming in one ear. He’s made a bit of an effort – put some make-up on, wrestled his hair into an acceptable shape. Ever since Seungri came along Jiyong has been sanding his edges, polishing them. Trying harder. Honing himself like a blade.

Youngbae closes the door. “Thanks. Y’didn’t have to.”

“Got you a cake and everythin’. ‘S in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” Youngbae says again.

Jiyong’s smile falters. He looks lost suddenly, like the script in his head’s only run up to here.

Youngbae takes pity on him. “Seungri’s hair. That you?”

“What? Oh. Yeah.”

“Looks good. He won’t stop preening now though, ‘s kinda disgusting.”

“Yeah.” Jiyong laughs, dimples flashing for a second, and Youngbae _aches_. “He’s a right little bitch, isn’t he?”

Youngbae doesn’t say anything. Just smiles. Jiyong’s shirt is sliding off one shoulder and it takes all of his self-control not to just reach out, slip a finger between cloth and skin as he hikes it back up.

“I like ‘im,” Jiyong says.

“I know.”

Jiyong watches him. “’m sorry.”

Youngbae’s known all along, but it hurts anyway. He shrugs; smiles again to take the edge off. “’s fine. You can like who you like. Just don’t lay it on too thick when Seunghyun’s ‘round.”

“He still mad?”

“Nah. He got Daesung now.”

“What ‘bout you?” Jiyong’s eyes are careful, focused steady on his face. “You got somethin’ for you here?”

Youngbae can hear the hidden question. He remembers again how Jiyong had looked that night, the fury and the naked fear underneath it; the way how just after Jiyong had beaten all the breath out of him he’d tangled a hand into the front of Youngbae’s shirt, gripped it like he wasn’t ever going to let go. 

Youngbae looks at Jiyong now and thinks, I’d follow you anywhere. Anywhere.

“Yeah,” Youngbae says. “I got somethin’.”

\--

_I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time._

**Author's Note:**

> I kind-of rushed through writing this, because I'm watching _Spectre_ on Wednesday and I'm a bit terrified I'll get sucked back into 00Q fandom without ever finishing this series. That said I still have one work left in this series I'm planning, hopefully my muse won't wander away too quickly... I hope this fic was up to par despite the rush /o\
> 
> For updates on any future fics, feel free to add me on [Tumblr](http://epistolica.tumblr.com), [LiveJournal](http://epistolic.livejournal.com), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/#!/epistolic)! ♥


End file.
